DAVID CHACKO

 

 

 

Probably, the day I became a writer was when I stood on a balcony four stories above the African city of Asmara. The Americans on the next balcony were throwing things to the crowd in the street below--ballpoint pens and cigarettes and candy.

 

But it got weird down there in the street. Scuffles started—and if it was a fight for Camels or Jujubees no one will ever know. A lot more people poured quickly in from the neighboring streets to get a piece of whatever it was worth fighting for. And so it became a brawl that took place. Since most Ethiopian men—even street people--carried slender four foot clubs made of very hard wood, the melee turned into an armed battle without much transition.

 

Probably, no one even asked what they were after. It had to be valuable if so many people were fighting for it, didn't it?

 

It got bloody out there in a hurry. The Americans on the next balcony were appalled when they found they had started a riot. They wondered out loud—they even asked me--what they should do to stop the thing they had brought into being.

 

I had no answer. These things happened. If you were stupid, they happened a lot more. I wasn't sure what this scene told me about human nature, but I knew I would use it some day.